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Monday, January 11, 2010

What You Say

We should eat something and go to the beach before it gets dark. I’m teaching Emma how to surf. But now it’s way past our siesta and she’s lying beside me. I’m looking at her, watching her, staring at her—she’s so angelically beautiful it’s embarrassing. I tell her I’m out of my mind over her.

I sigh and rest my head below her rib cage. Her eyes are closed and she’s stroking my hair. After a minute she bends over me, her breasts all I can see. “You faker, Scott, acting scared.”

We readjust so we’re on our sides facing each other, her legs criss-crossed between mine. My eyes roll toward the sky. “The whole thing’s stupid. You know how I feel.”

She cups her hands over my eyes for half a second—hide and seek. “Of course, I know how you feel and you know how I feel.”

The thing is, she hasn’t said she loves me. Now that would be a dangerous thing to say: that I want her to say it first.

So we’re having a great time. The sex is wilder than wild, and she’s just now, after our second session today, proposed a limit of once every twenty-four hours. Because while she admits it’s fun to succumb to every stirring, “We don’t wanna be going at it because we can’t think of anything else to do.”

Yesterday Pedro asked why I haven’t followed through on that dinner invitation to him and Moira.